The Next Bait

The Next Bait

He always knew they were just dreams. Not while he was having them, but when he woke up, no matter how wretched he was, he knew deep down that he needn't fear. He would not get fooled again, never again. He had learnt his lesson the hard way, and he would never forgive himself for--even now, one month after Sirius's death, he could not think the words. He knew that if anything happened to anybody, they would come and get him, they would let him know.

But dreams or not, he couldn't stand them. He tried not to sleep, but always failed. A 15-year-old can only spend so much sleepless nights. He diligently - desperately - practiced Occlumency every time he gave up and went to bed. But he had nobody there to test him, to encourage him--he only had Fear, and it was a strong enemy. To make matters worse, he usually was so sleepy that he fell asleep long before he could try to empty his brain of all thought (but was that even possible?), or he wasn't sleepy enough, and before he could finally fall into oblivion, his brain was swarming again.

The first time, a week after he had come back to Privet Drive, he dreamt of Sirius. His godfather was lying down at his feet, bleeding and whimpering, and Harry heard Voldemort's cold, heartless voice asking him if it felt good, if he wanted more. Harry woke up with a start, his bed literally soaked in sweat. The crueller part was that for a fleeting second, Harry had the delirious hope that maybe his godfather was still alive, still breathing...merely...merely being tortured to death...

Uncle Vernon yelled for him to go back to sleep when the force of Harry's sobs managed to pour through his pillow and the thick walls of his room.

The second time, Lupin was curled into a ball at his feet, already stone cold, his eyes wide and lifeless, his expression one of resignation. But before Voldemort could speak, Harry felt a wave of emotions overtaking him, and the thought foremost on his brain was that at least, at least Lupin was with his friends again, where he truly belonged. At least somebody would see Sirius again soon. Harry didn't even wake up, merely drifted into a dream of his own, a dream filled with sunny days and black furry dogs.

The third time, he stepped into a room he could not recognise, only to find Hermione there, chained to a wall. The curly-head was looking nothing short of terrified and crying for Harry to come rescue her until her voice broke; then she hung her head in defeat, sobbing and muttering again and again what Harry came to recognize as "Why did you fail me?". Harry fumed, trying to run to the wall and unchain her, then yelling when he discovered he had no control over his body--but instead of a yell, his mouth opened to a hissing voice he knew all too well: "I don't think he'd come for you, no...He would look for help first, he would look for you elsewhere...There must be someone better..." That night, Harry woke up feeling both mad and hugely disappointed.

The dreams ceased for a few days, only to be replaced by the familiar flashbacks of that fateful night, endless falls through veils tainted with blood, green lights ricocheting over golden statues that were laughing down at him, hurt and broken.

And then...he was standing in front of the Burrow. At last, he was away from Private Drive, back to where he knew he truly belonged. He walked into the kitchen, thinking things were so different when seen from higher above the ground. He didn't remember growing up so much during the summer. But soon enough, he noticed something else had changed. The house that was always so filled with noises and laughter was eerily silent. Harry didn't have time to think that they must all be at Head Quarters when he saw a hand on the ground. The arm that spread from it disappeared behind the living-room wall. Harry carefully walked around the corner, feeling a mixture of quiet amusement and extreme dread.

He took it in all at the same time. Mrs Weasley, to whom the hand belonged, Mr Weasley, Ron, the twins...all lying down, all with the same expression on their faces, the expression that Cedric's face had when he died. After a while of unbelieving silence, he spotted Ginny curled up on the floor in a corner of the room, crying quietly and swaying back and forth, arms tightly wrapped around her knees. She looked up at him and suddenly she was screaming at the top of her voice: "It's all his fault!! It's all his fault!! He let us all down!! Be damned, Harry Potter!!!" Harry woke up almost immediately and cried for long bitter hours, hating the hilarity exploding in every fibre of his being.

The fifth time, Ginny was there again, but she was alone this time. She was reading in the Gryffindor common room, sitting cross legged on the carpet, wearing a t-shirt and striped boxers. Her back was turned to him, and when he stepped beside her and looked down, as silent as a shadow, he saw her profile, her flaming hair caressing her cheek, the flames of the nearby fire gleaming and dancing on her slim body. She carelessly pulled her hair back behind her ear, and a blush crept on her cheek. "I thought you'd never come," she said, shyly, and Harry felt his lips stretching in a smile, remembering a girl much younger, frightened and dying on a cold, wet floor.

Her eyes widened with fear when she looked up. Harry heard himself laugh, and he bent down, his thin white fingers lovingly curling around her pale neck. "Do you think he would come for you again?" he hissed. "Do you think he loves you enough?" Ginny's soft pink lips parted, her fingers compulsively gripping his hand. And then, after long silent seconds, her look turned vacant, blank. He dropped her on the floor and stared at her body for a while, before shaking his head. "There must be someone...Sirius wasn't the only one..."

The sixth time, Harry immediately knew he was dreaming. As it had never occurred with the dreams he knew Voldemort was putting into his head--or maybe the guilt about getting lured to rescue Sirius was just too strong, he often wondered. He remembered thinking that for once maybe he would have a nice, normal dream; the fact that he was standing in front of the stairs that led to his dormitory only increased the feeling. But deep down, he could feel incredulity, and a slight anticipation, that he knew didn't belong to him. He gripped his wand in his hand and slowly climbed the stairs, stopping in front of a small wooden door. He pushed it, and smiled when he saw Ron sleeping on his bed, curled up into a tight ball, his hair falling on his closed eyes. He swiftly walked closer, and his fingers brushed against the pale skin of Ron's neck, from their own volition. It was cold, very cold. Harry heard that voice within himself laughing softly, and gripped Ron's shoulder, turning him on his back. There was blood dripping from the corner of Ron's mouth, and half of his hair was a full red, deep and thick. For the first time, Harry realized he was inside his own body, despite the voice and the feelings. At least it felt like it, when his legs gave way under him and he crumpled on the hard cold floor, missing the mattress by an inch. When he blindly reached up to grip Ron's lifeless hand, needing to keep contact--he would not let his best friend go through death alone--his fingers were shorter, tanned. He kept thinking that maybe Ron wasn't dead yet, that he should try to wake him up, should run to the infirmary, but his entire body felt completely numb, and his brain didn't seem to have any will to make it move.

When Harry woke up, he didn't cry. He only stared at the white ceiling above his head for what felt like hours, the numbness of his dream still pressing on him. When he finally got the courage to get up, it was to send a message to Grimmauld Place, and to the Burrow, asking in an off-hand way if everybody was okay, and telling Ron that he missed him--that sentence alone took Harry two hours to write, as he suddenly didn't recall ever admitting it before, and didn't want to sound silly. He didn't mention his dream, didn't mention any of his dreams.

He didn't eat for three days, waiting to get an answer. Every sleeping hour was filled with dreams of Ron dying, Ron curled up alone and scared in dark cold rooms. Every waking hour was spent biting his nails off and repeating like a mantra "just a dream, it was just a dream", even though he already knew it was a dream; his eyes kept darting towards his wide open window every odd second, expecting to see Hedwig perched on the window sill.

When he finally got a reply - a nice long letter from Ron, which made Harry smile because this time Ron obviously had no idea of what the Order was doing but was still trying his hardest not to be cryptic in case Harry would feel left out once again - he felt an immense relief, but still didn't felt like eating, or reading, or doing anything at all. That same day, in the middle of the night, his scar burnt so hard his scream was heard from the other side of the street. Then another part of him, a foreign, snake-like part inside of him, started to laugh, because this was even better than sexual ecstasy.

Voldemort had found his next bait.